


My Heart Is Riding on Your Wings

by Muccamukk



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff and Smut, Hook-Up, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, male reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: Places like this are sometimes the only ones that don't make you feel like the only man on Earth.
Relationships: Bull Randleman/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	My Heart Is Riding on Your Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Diablo_donnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diablo_donnie/gifts).



> Written for Donovan, who commented that there needed to be more male readerfic in Band of Brothers fandom.
> 
> Title from "Skylark" by Johnny Mercer, I'm thinking of the Glenn Miller version.

The HMCS Halifax is only in port long enough to bunker, but the captain still allows shore leave, and you're not going to turn it down. You polish your shoes with the rest of the guys, slip into your cleanest, and tightest pair, of dungarees, and saunter into town. You've been in this port enough times to know your way around, and go past the obvious bars right down by the docks, knowing they water the drinks and are the first place the Shore Patrol hit when they're rounding up drunken sailors such as you plan to be in the next few hours.

It's been a couple weeks since you've had anything but a rolling deck under your feet, and as you walk uphill, you know you still move like you don't have solid ground under your feet. The rolling gate of a sailor gives away your profession as the navy wool of your uniform. The town's full of young men like you, or who look like you on the outside. You wonder how many of them feel the same things as you do. Probably more than a few, given the Navy's reputation, but it's not something men talk about.

Eventually, you find a quieter bar on a cobblestone side street, the kind of place where you go down into a basement to get to a heavy door, and then have to know the right words to get in. Once inside, the lights are low, and someone plays show tunes on an out of tune piano. There're mostly men here, though not all in uniform, and some of them with high trilling voices, that send a shiver of familiarity down your spine. There's a bar like this, or near enough, in every port you've been in, where men who like certain things can find other men who like the same. You're glad this one's still here, and you didn't have to hint around after a new place.

There's about two square feet of dance floor next to the piano, and a couple of fellows, sailors both, are dancing together. Rather, they're holding each other while swaying. You feel a rush of envy at the sight. It's been too long since you've been held like that, and you skin itches for another man's touch.

You survey the bar, and mostly see men together. It might be worth investigating if one of the established couples is interested in a ménage à trois, but that's not your first choice. You want someone to focus on you and only you, even if it's just for an evening.

At the end of the bar you see a broad set of shoulders hunched over low. The fellow's curled around a mug of beer like he thinks someone's going to take it away from him. The bar stool next to him's empty, and you hop on it without asking if he's expecting a friend. You can tell by his posture that he's just as alone as you are, but you're not entirely sure if he wants to keep it that way.

You flag the bartender down and order a whiskey, neat, and while he's pouring it, you eye the fellow next to you. He's wearing some kind of Yank army uniform, but you don't recognise the unit patch past that it's an airborne division. He's an NCO, you think, if you remember how to read US army ranks, and aren't somehow mistaking a captain. You like his curly blond hair, and the soft planes of his face. He's smoking a cigar, a cheap one by the smell, and it's hard to take your eyes off the way his lips close around it. Mostly you like how big he is. The mug of beer looks like a tea cup in his massive hands, and you want those hands around your hips.

When you get the whiskey, you raise it to him in a toast and say hello. You wish you had a clever line, but somehow all you can think of is something about did he come here often, and that's better off not said.

"Hey," he says back, and looks you up and down. You can see if not interest than an absence of disdain in his expression. He looks like a man who doesn't naturally scowl, and you like that, too.

"You come here often?" you ask, and then wince, which makes him smile. Something in his smile ties a small knot around your heart and cinches it tight.

"Naw, it's my first time," the man says, and he's got one of those accents from the southern part of the US, not the soft blur of the deep south or the twang of Texas, but something in between. "My unit's stationed up near Swindon."

You have a vague idea where that is, somewhere inland, not all that close to your port. "You didn't want to go into London?"

The man shrugs, and his broad shoulders strain against his uniform. "Done that a time or two," he says, "reckon I wanted to try something different. What 'bout you? How long you in port?"

Now it's your turn to shrug and smile. The posters about loose lips are just as true in England as they are everywhere else. "Not too long, I hope," you say, then you give him a little smile and add, "but long enough."

The man chuckles then turns and holds out his hand. "Most folks call me Bull," he says.

"Can't imagine why," you tell him. You expect his grip to be crushing, but he's not the kind of man who needs to show off his strength. His hand is big and rough and warm, but not hard. Your own grip can be strong from days working lines and moving cargo, but you match your force to his, and your touch lingers. "I'm here enough I'd rather not use my name," you say. You could make one up, have tried doing so before, but hearing someone else's name on a lover's lips has never sat well with you.

"Well, then, guess I'll just have to think up something to call you," Bull tells you, and you're glad he doesn't take offence. "Shit. Maybe that's why I'm all the way down here: so as I don't have to worry 'bout what might get back to my buddies."

"Makes sense," you say, then can't think of anything else to say after that. It seems a little lonely to you, but then you think about how sometimes it seems a little lonely to spend all that time with other men, and not be able to talk about certain things. Places like this are sometimes the only ones that don't make you feel like the only man on Earth, then.

"Just got here a few months ago," Bull says, picking up the conversational ball you dropped. Somehow he makes you feel less awkward, less likely to second guess every word that comes out of your mouth. There's a steadiness to him that you want to lean into. "Can't say as I'm used to the food, or the weather, but the folks here sure are friendly."

"They're happy for the help," you say. "Seems like we were in the war by ourselves a long time."

"How long you been in?" he asks, genuinely interested.

You shrug. "A while." You'd lied about your age to join up, but that was a long time ago. It's hard to guess ages in a bar as dark as this, but you'd bet you and Bull are in the same area. Though you've seen combat by now, and you don't think he has yet. He doesn't have the look.

All at once, the idea of this man becoming hardened by battle strikes you as immensely sad. You can't help yourself, you reach across the small space between you and put your hand on his shoulder, as if you can somehow reassure him. You can feel the muscles of his shoulder even through the heavy wool of his uniform jacket.

Bull glances down at your hand, and smiles, suddenly almost shy. The way his smile crinkles his eyes makes you revise his age up a little bit, but he's still very young. Everyone in this damn war is. You want to tell him that he should live for every minute he can, while he has the chance, but before the words order themselves in your mind, he stubs his cigar out, and asks, "You wanna dance, darling?"

"Sure," you say. You try to remember the last time you danced with someone. It's been a long time: New York the summer before, maybe.

The sailors have cleared off the floor, and the piano player is off getting a drink. Before you can get up, Bull's already flagged the man down. He says something in his ear, and the guy nods. The piano player sends you a glance, then smiles conspiratorially at Bull.

Bull holds out his hand, like he's helping you down off the bar stool. You knock back the last of your whiskey and let him. It's not that you can't stand on your own, but it feels nice to be fussed over. You let him lead, too, as you both step onto the tiny dance floor. You like the way his hand feels on the small of your back, and it gives you an excuse to resume feeling up the muscles on his shoulder.

The piano starts up with a slow jazzy tune you don't know. You think it's probably one of those old torch songs so popular in the American South, and you touched at the idea that Bull's trying to imply that you're worthy of a broken heart.

"Nice choice," you tell him, as he starts to dance. You both know the steps well enough to make small circles around the floor, a little better than the shuffling the sailors were doing.

"I'll think of you when I hear it," Bull tells you. It should sound like a line, but you think he means it.

"Me too," you say. You'll have to ask the piano player what it's actually called. You move your hand from his shoulder to the side of his neck. You can feel the faintest stubble under your palm, and he smiles when you stroke the side of his neck with your thumb. You're dancing closer now, his hand on your back guiding your bodies together until your chests are touching. It hadn't felt too hot when you'd come in, but the room is warmer now, and you want to shed your jumper.

The dim lights of the bar cast red and gold highlights into Bull's hair, glimmering as he moves to the rhythm of the tune. You feel like you can't take your eyes off him, like you want to stay here forever in this little bubble of acceptance and warmth. Outside, a war rages, but it doesn't feel like that here, with his arms around you, and the soft notes of the piano rolling through both your bodies.

He moves his hand up your back, tracing the contours of your spin with his fingertips, and you want to purr in response. Instead you let your head fall on his shoulder. Now you really are just swaying in place on the dance floor, and it seems pretty obvious where this is heading.

The song ends, and you keep standing there. You know half the bar is looking at you, but you like that. They're looking at you with Bull and knowing who out of all the men here he's picked. You must look good together, a study in contrasts.

The piano player seems like he wants to show off after that, and starts in on a double-time rendition of "Sweet Georgia Brown." You look up at Bull, and your faces are so close together that you don't get more than a blur of his expression. You can tell he's still smiling, and you don't want to wait a moment more, so you kiss him right there in the middle of the bar.

He tips his head to meet your mouth, and parts his lips. You end up going deeper than you planned, sucking on his lower lip hard enough to make him moan. His hand is heavy on the back of your neck, holding you against him. He has to bend a little to match your bodies together, and he kisses back unhurriedly, as if you have all the time in the world. You didn't expect his lips to be this soft, but you're not surprised that he's gentle.

You're not sure how long you kiss him, but long enough that you're breathless when he pulls away.

"I know a place where we can get rooms," you say. You don't want to just duck into the head for a quick jerk off. A man like this is someone you want to take your time with.

"I'm ahead of you, darling," he tells you. One of his hands is still warm on your neck, and the other is creeping down your back towards your ass. You press forward, wanting to melt against his body. You'd let him have you right here on the dance floor if he asked, but a room sounds better.

"Hope it's not far," you say. You know you're coming off as easy, but you don't care.

"Just around the corner," Bull assures you. Now, he does draw away.

You retrieve your cap, and leave together, back up the stairs into the narrow street. It's fair weather for the south of England in October: cloudy with a stiff breeze, but not foggy or raining. Your wool jumper cuts the weather, but you still take the excuse to walk close, and he puts his arm around your lower back. To a passer-by, you could look like two drunks helping each other stay upright, but you know the truth, a little secret just between the two of you.

Bull's room is a second story in a boarding house, one run by the kind of old lady who wasn't quite a madam, but certainly didn't care who spends how much time in whose room. Bull leads the way up the stairs, leaving you to admire the current design of US Army uniforms, and how this man fills them out. You want to get him naked so that you can sink your teeth into that ass. Hopefully, soon.

From the look in Bull's eyes as he holds the door open, he has a similar idea.

It's a cosy little room, nicer than most Red Cross matchboxes or double occupancies at the Y. Bull has a double bed with a proper headboard, a side table, and enough room to walk from one side of the rug to the other. The WC looks to be down the hall, but it's still pure luxury as far as you're concerned.

The blackout curtains are already drawn, and Bull circles the room, turning all three lamps on. "Wanna get a proper look at you, darling."

You spread your arms and turn for him. If nothing else, you know that your ass looks great in these dungarees. When you come back around to facing him, he steps forward, takes your face between his hands and bends to kiss you again.

"Like what you see?" you ask in the moment before your lips meet his.

"Oh, yeah," he breaths. He kisses you more deeply this time, taking more control. You feel his tongue against your lips and open your mouth for him. He's still so careful with you, playing his tongue along your lips, and moving with deliberation, but you can feel the power of his desire. He's almost trembling as he holds himself back. You put your hands on his hips and pull him forward, wanting to feel him as he lets go. You know he's strong enough to break you, but you know he won't. It's strange to trust someone you haven't known for half an hour, but you do.

You twist a little in his hold to rub your hip against the front of his trousers. You can feel his dick starting to harden, and you want to sink to your knees in front of him, but that would mean breaking the kiss, and that's not something you ever want to do. Bull's tongue's in your mouth now. He's moaning as you keep moving against him, and his hands tighten their hold on your face. You like this, how your bodies are already connected, even though you haven't taken off a scrap of clothing. Your touch travels through him, and then back through you, in an eternal loop of pleasure.

"I want—" you manage to say in there somewhere, but can't get the rest out.

"What do you want, darling?" Bull asks. He rests his forehead against yours, so that your noses brush.

You can't decide. You want to do everything with him, but most of your ideas start in the same place, so you say, "Want to get you out of that uniform."

Bull chuckles and steps away, which makes the room feel colder, but then he's undoing buttons, and you watch hungrily as he carefully peels out of his jacket, setting it aside before sliding his tie and suspenders off and starting in on the buttons of his blouse. You want to watch him undress like it's some kind of blue movie, but you also don't want to be fully dressed by the time he's naked, so you start to shed layers as well, first your jumper, then your collar and under shirt, then finally you start unbuttoning your dungarees. Bull's down to a thin white undershirt and shorts by then. How he got those high, lustrous boots off so fast, you have no idea.

You bend to get your own shoes off, and while you're down there, you check out his shorts. His dick is straining against them now, and even though the fabric you can tell he's big. You want to make a joke about where he got his nickname, but you're pretty sure he's heard most of the variations by now. He's so close that it's too much temptation: you fall to your knees and nuzzle the front of his shorts. A rough cry tears from his throat, and he catches your shoulder for balance. You keep going, feeling the shape of him with your lips, your cheek, your tongue. By the time you're done, the fabric's soaked with a mix of your spit and his pre come, and Bull's knees are starting to wobble. You think that if he falls over, he'll probably crush you to death, and then you think that wouldn't be such a bad way to go.

"If you wanna keep going, we oughta move to the bed," Bull says, and you look up at him. He's starting to flush pink, and you want to get that undershirt off to see how far down his chest it's spread.

He holds out his hand, and you take it and let him pull you to your feet. You take the chance to push your skivvies off, and he takes his shirt off, and then you're standing bare chest to bare chest, and you can't tell when your heart started pounding like this, but you swear it's so loud the captain must be able to hear it all the way back on the Halifax. You must have worked up a pretty good flush yourself; your arousal has always been obvious.

"Sweet Christ, just look at you," Bull says. He catches your chin in his hand and holds your face steady so that he can look at it properly. "Just as pretty as a picture." You think he's laying the accent on a little thicker on purpose, playing up his back woods simplicity, but you don't care. The most handsome man you've seen in months is holding you in his arms and telling you everything sweet thing you could want to hear, and the rest doesn't matter.

You run his hand up and down the broad expanse of his chest. He's got blond hair all over it, fine and soft under your palms. Your hands cross over his nipples, and he gasps slightly and his hips roll forward, so you squeeze his pecs so that he does it again. You like how his body has a little give in it, not all whipcord muscle and bone. Your cock rubs against his hip, and you know that the cry you make is high and full of want, but that's okay. You want him to know how much he's winding you up.

"Wasn't I in the middle of something?" you ask.

"Might be you were," he agrees, and starts to back towards the bed. You follow him, stepping over the piles of clothes on the floor, until he's settled on the edge of the bed. He pushes his shorts off, and you fall to your knees between his legs. He is big, his cock dark and hard, against the gentle slope of his belly. You press your face between his legs, and rub through the blond curls around his cock.

"Shit." He draws out the word, and you smile at being able to make him swear. He's got his hands on your shoulders, but it seems like it's more to steady himself than to guide your pace. Bull's waiting to see what you want to do, and you're trying to work out how slow you can stand to take things. Desire is throbbing through your body with every heartbeat, and you want his hands on you so bad it's a taste filling your mouth. But you also want to be the one who takes him apart, who proves how good you can make him feel. You know that you can do it. Already he's breathing a little faster, tightening his grip on your shoulders as you nose down to lick his balls.

As soon as your tongue makes contact, he starts to whine real high in the back of his throat, and you know he's yours. Now, you know that you're going to draw things out, make him beg for you. You don't want him to just remember you when he hears that song, you want him to remember you every time something turns him on. You listen to his soft cries, and let them guide you as you run your tongue all over him. You lick up the shaft of his dick, and he whimpers; you roll the breadth of your tongue over the head, licking away the bead of come there, and he swears and calls you sweet names. His hands are big and strong on your shoulders, massaging the muscles there as you take the tip into your mouth.

Bull's cock is too big for you to swallow much of it down, but wrap your hand around the base and do the best you can. He doesn't seem to mind, though you notice he holds his hips still so that he doesn't accidentally ram his dick down your throat. You can hear how fast his breathing is even between the moans and soft cries, and feel his fingers tightening on your shoulders. You wonder if he'll leave bruises, and how you'll explain them if he does, but Bull's a man who's very careful with his strength.

You get a nice rhythm going, enjoying the way bobbing up and down on his dick rings cries out of Bull. You stroke his balls, lick, suck, work your hand up and down him until he has to let go of your shoulders and hold onto the edge of the mattress. His powerful thighs flex and release on either side of you, shaking with his effort to hold himself back.

As you pop off his dick to start licking him again, he goes quiet, and all you can hear is rough and heavy breathing. You stop and look up, and he's staring down at you wide-eyed. His light blue eyes have darkened to steel grey, and the flush has indeed spread all the way down his chest.

"Oh, Lord," Bull murmurs. "Darling, please don't stop. I need..." he breaks off, but you know what he needs. His whole body is throbbing with want for you, for what only you can give him.

You start sucking him again, sinking as far down as you can, never mind how it makes your jaw ache a little to stretch your mouth that wide. The way he starts to choke back his cries is reward enough, and soon his hand is in your hair, stroking it smooth.

"Darling, I'm gonna..." Bull starts, but it's too late, and you wouldn't have pulled off anyway. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling a little, but not holding you onto his cock as he finally tries to jerk forward. You ride with him, swallowing as much of his come as you can and hoping too much of the rest doesn't get onto the nice rug. It takes a long time for him to finish, and you wonder how many months it's been since the last partner he'd found, then you turn your thoughts away from that. You want it to be only you that he cares about, and you're going to pretend that's true as long as this lasts.

Finally, he goes back to stroking your hair, like you're a good dog, and you rest your cheek on his thigh and think how much you'd like to stay here forever.

But you don't like kneeling on the rug, as soft as it is, nearly as much as you like it when he pulls you up onto the bed with him. He gets you both under the covers, then he starts to kiss and touch you.

You've been with men whole just give you a half-hearted grope and then pass out after they've come, but Bull's nothing like that. Even in the sleepy lassitude following his orgasm, he's completely focused on you. He doesn't seem to care that you taste like his come as he kisses you, it might even turn him on. He lies over top of you, caging you in with his arms and legs, and it feels like his mouth and hands are everywhere.

Everywhere, that is, except your dick. That, Bull's not touching. Instead, he kisses the column of your throat as you toss your head back, and runs his hands up and down your sides. His rough palms scrape over your skin, making you shiver with pleasure. He trails kisses down your sternum and over your ribs, until he's on his hands and knees with the covers bunched up around him, and his face pressed into the crease between your stomach and your thigh, and still not touching your damn cock. You try to find his head to nudge him in the right direction, but there are too many blankets in the way. You moan in frustration, and arch your hips off the bed to make your point clear.

You feel as much as hear Bull's chuckle. He crawls back up the bed until he's lying beside you, head propped up on one arm with the other stroking your stomach. "You feel so good," he tells you. "Loved having your mouth on me, couldn't say I mind touching you, neither."

"Wish you'd touch me more," you say, which is a bit catty, but you were planning on making Bull wait, not the other way around.

"Like this?" he asks, and runs his hand over the jut of your hip. When you try to thrust up again, he pins you to the mattress. He's so strong that he barely has to flex his shoulders to do it.

"Like that," you agree, "but more on my prick."

"Shit, darling." Bull grins down at you. "Do you mean like this?" Ge strokes your cock in one long pull, and the feeling is electric. Like your body is one of those magnets that only works when someone hooks it up to a current.

You nod frantically. "Yeah, yeah, like that."

After that, Bull goes with slow, steady strokes, enough to draw you forward, but not rushing anything. He starts to kiss you again too, and you can think of anything better than lying on a soft mattress, surrounded by warm, fresh sheets, being kissed and stroked off like a man like this. You let yourself go like you rarely have before, moaning openly and jerking your hips under his touch. You want to show him how much you're enjoying this, and from the feel of his mouth curving against yours as he smiles and kisses you at the same time, he appreciates your responsiveness.

His skin is a little too rough against your dick, but the edge of pain just makes the pleasure sweeter, like one of those candies that's sugary and sour all at the same time, or maybe like a lick of salt, a squeeze of lime, and a shot of tequila.

Your thought might not be making much sense any more, even to you. You try to beg him, though you're not sure for what, but Bull's got his tongue in your mouth, and his thumb is rolling over the spot just under the head of your cock, and you don't have any words left in you, just building desire and the blood pounding in your ears. You feel your skin prickle like it always does right before you come, and you think he can feel it too, because he slides over top of you again, so that his body covers yours, and when you come, it splatters all over his stomach and chest, not the blankets.

You don't notice that at first, you're too busy leaving your body in the rush of orgasm. and by the time you settle back into yourself, he's wiping you both down with tissues, but somehow hasn't stopped kissing you. You think your lips are going to go numb from how much he kissed you, but you're not planning to complain about it.

You wait until he's done cleaning you up, then roll over so that your back's to him. Bull seems to get what you want instinctively, and spoons up behind you. You're both a little sticky with sweat, but it still feels good to have his chest pressed against your back, and his solid arms wrapped around you. You snuggle back against him and consider a short nap.

"You have to go back to your ship tonight?" Bull asks.

You shake your head. "Forty-eight hour shore leave," you tell him. As of two hours in, you think it's going pretty well.

"That's good," he says, then hesitates. It's the first uncertainty you've heard from him all evening, and it makes you want to wriggle around in his arms and kiss it away. "You can stay the night, if you like. What I mean to say is, I'd like that, but I won't take it too hard if you want to go, neither."

You take his hand in yours, and lift it to your lips to kiss. "I want to stay," you tell him. "I'm not nearly finished with you yet."

"That so?" Bull asks. His voice is light, but you can feel the tension flow out of his body, and he shifts behind you, as if it's possible to get any closer than he already is.

You could tell him that you meant it, but instead you take his fingers into your mouth and suck them, reminding him off all the things you can do.

In the end, you spend most of your pass in that bed, coming out for food a few times a day.

On the very last afternoon, right before you go back to your ship, and he goes back to his base, you lean over and whisper your name in his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos totally make my day, and I very much appreciate comments of every length, percentage of emoji, and level of coherency.


End file.
